Fistful of Cereal

The kids pop, spraying confetti.
Moms spin mops like ninjas.
Everyone wants hot chocolate
for the marshmallows. Ten years

later we have traveled in time.
Fields of soldiers. Everything
written is not your name, kid,
except that it is, especially

as you read it. Ten years
back we were spinning like
ninja-staffs. You lodged
like a star in our doorframe.

There were so many baths
and nothing we couldn’t help with,
except what nobody could.
Nobody wants bedtime

except for the stories and rest.
A hundred years later, you’ll
remember names of fields.
Riding our backs and legs.

And then like now: so much
no one can help with.
Lost pieces of sippy cups,
Tupperware lids. Night, so vast.

Put your hat on now.
Help throw the toys into boxes.
Would that our digestion
helped like the washing machine’s.

Anytime, climb on me for the view.
Just not this second, while
my show is on. How many shoes
on the wrong feet? Songs, in rounds?

Adopted and invented rites,
those should stick. We time-travel
and take requests. Post up
to be spun around.

Fireworks of kids, paper everywhere.
Play-doh in shag. Sideline oranges.
Painful pool sounds. Nobody
likes waiting or being sick

or hurt or dead. Field of names.
How many questions ignored, repeated,
answered, diverted? Loving syllables
mispronounced? How much trash?

Air in tires? Blood, in ounces?
From terrified but trusting to tough.
Stuck in bed. How many lips
sticking out? Lock-eyed showdowns?

I can count the puppet shows
on two hands, using puppets.
It’s a whirlwind of arms, a fistful
of cereal ground into the couch.

Time spins with earth, and we
dream in series. The hats stacking up
on our heads, Goldfish crackers
swimming into our mouths.

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2 thoughts on “Fistful of Cereal

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